Call Me Sam
by Angel Grace
Summary: Samantha and Martin commiserate after the murder of Annie Miller.


Rating: PG

Spoilers: Through the episode "Maple Street"

Summary: Martin and Samantha commiserate after the murder of Annie Miller.

Disclaimer: The characters depicted her do not belong to me.  They are the property of CBS Televison, et al.  They are used without permission; no infringement is intended, and no profit is being made from their use.

**Call Me Sam**

By Grace

                Agent Samantha Spade was exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally.  She had just left the home of Carol Miller, a widow whose only child, a 13-year-old daughter, had been abducted, raped, and murdered.

                She hadn't been particularly surprised when Mrs. Miller asked her to stay as she watched one of her daughter Annie's home movies, but that didn't make the experience any easier.  Samantha had managed to maintain her control while she was in the house, but now that she was alone in the car, the icy rain beating down outside, she lost it.  Fierce sobs wracked her body, and she buried her face in her hands.  It took her fifteen minutes to regain her composure.  When she had finally calmed down, Sam wiped away the last vestiges of her tears and turned the key in the ignition.

                She drove back to the field office slowly, not wanting to risk an accident on the treacherous roads.  It was with great relief that she pulled the vehicle into the FBI garage.  Gathering up her purse, she fumbled about for her cell phone.

                "Dammit," she muttered.  She must have left her phone at her desk before she left for Mrs. Miller's.  As much as she wanted to just head home and sleep, if Jack couldn't get hold of her, "I was too tired to get my phone" wasn't going to fly as an excuse.

                With a sigh, Samantha extricated herself from the car and headed up to the offices of the FBI's Missing Persons Unit.

*              *                *

                Agent Martin Fitzgerald squeezed his eyes shut and massaged the bridge of his nose.  It had been a particularly difficult day, a particularly difficult case.  It was always hardest when it involved children.  Returning his attention to the computer screen, Martin clicked "save" and shut down the machine.  He knew he could have put off writing his case report until the next day, but the truth was, he wanted to put this one behind him as quickly as possible.

                Martin stood up and stretched, then slipped on his overcoat and headed for the elevator.  He tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for the car to arrive, and looked up in anticipation when the doors started to slide open.  To his surprise, Samantha stepped out of the elevator, her head down, eyes trained on the floor.

                "Samantha?  What are you doing here?"

                Her head snapped up.  "Martin.  I didn't see you there."

                "Obviously.  I thought you went home hours ago."

                She didn't meet his eyes,  "No, I had something to take care of, and I just noticed I didn't have my phone."

                He nodded in understanding, gazing intently at her.  Her eyes were rimmed in red, and she had obviously been crying.  "How are you doing?"

                She shrugged and ducked her head.  "It's been a rough day."

                "Do you want to talk about it?"

                Samantha shook her head.

                "Want to go get drunk?"

                Finally, she looked at him, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.  "That's the best offer I've had all day."

                He grinned at her, wide enough to show his dimples.  "Go get your phone.  I'll wait."

                She headed towards her desk, her pace brisk and her head up.  She returned within moments.

                The pair stepped onto the elevator in silence, and Martin waited until it began its descent to ask, "So what's your pleasure, Agent Spade?"

                She graced him with a smile, and replied, "There's a little tavern a few blocks away.  I think you'll like it."

*              *                *

                As Samantha had said, the bar was small, and dimly lit.  There were only a handful of patrons on stools and tucked away in secluded booths.  The low light was diffused by a haze of cigarette smoke, and failed to penetrate the darkened corners.  Martin allowed Samantha to lead him into one of those darkened corners, and they sat down in one of those secluded booths, the imitation leather cracked and split, the wooden table scarred with carved graffiti and cigarette burns.

                Martin ordered a beer, Samantha a Scotch on the rocks, and then he asked her, "How'd you find this place?"

                "Jack brought me here after my first case with the unit.  It was…difficult, and I was a wreck."

                He nodded, but didn't speak, knowing that it was best to just let her talk it out.

                "I almost quit after the first day," she confessed.  "I joined the FBI because…well, for a lot of reasons, but one of them was to help people.  That day, I thought I had failed.  The vic was a college student, not even twenty.  She disappeared on her way home from class.  We found her down by Port Authority.  She was naked…  She'd been beaten and sexually assaulted before her throat was cut."  She paused when the waitress brought them their drinks, and drained half her glass before continuing her story.

                "It wasn't our fault—she was dead before anyone even reported her missing.  Logically, rationally, I knew that.  But I couldn't help wondering what the point of this job was if we were just going to be too late."

                She paused again, and Martin watched with concern as she knocked back the rest of her drink and signaled for the waitress.  Carefully, he asked, "What made you decide to stay?"

                "Jack.  He convinced me to stick it out at least a week, to not make my decision on the basis of one case.  Two days later, we worked another kidnapping case.  An estranged father snatched his ten-year-old daughter from the front yard of his ex-wife's house.  We tracked him to a motel outside Pittsburgh, brought the little girl home safe and sound.  The look on her mother's face when we brought her in—that made me stay."

                He nodded.  "I guess we have to believe we'll solve every case and get that happy ending, or we'd all quit."

                "That's what makes Annie Miller's death so hard," she commented, sipping on her second glass of Scotch.  "I really believed we'd find her in time.  I _wanted to believe we'd find her in time."_

                "We found Siobhan," he pointed out gently.  "We probably would have been too late if you hadn't spotted that guy in the movie."

                She managed a wan smile.  "I know—that's why I didn't quit today, either."

                Martin grinned, and took a pull on his beer.

                "Did you always want to join the FBI?" Samantha asked.

                He took another drink before replying.  "I think I was thirteen years old before I even realized there were any other jobs in the world.  My dad…he loves this life.  I always knew he wanted me to follow in his footsteps."

                "What did _you_ want?"

                "I didn't want to disappoint my father," he answered quietly.

                They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, Martin picking at the label on his beer bottle, and Samantha finishing off her drink and motioning for another.

                "When I asked if you wanted to get drunk, I didn't think you'd take me quite so literally," he commented lightly.

                "When you asked if I wanted to get drunk, I didn't think I'd be doing it alone," she snapped.

                "Whoa, calm down," he said, flashing one of those heart-stopping smiles that she swore wouldn't be so damn appealing if she couldn't feel the alcohol humming through her veins.  "I don't mind if you want to get plastered, but I consider it my responsibility to get you home safely."

                "I don't need someone to take care of me."

                "Fine.  But just for tonight, why don't you let me do that anyway?"

                Her eyes blazed.  "If this is some pathetic seduction attempt, Agent Fitzgerald, you picked the wrong girl.  I assure you, I won't be sleeping in your bed tonight."

                His expression hardened.  "I wasn't asking you to," he spat.  "I'm trying to be your friend, _Agent Spade_," he said, emphasizing her title, "which no one around here seems to want to let me do.  I don't know what I ever did to offend you people, but I'm getting sick of being stonewalled.  So go ahead, drink yourself into oblivion.  I'm going home."

                He threw a couple bills on the table and stood up, stopping only when he felt her hand on his wrist.

                "Martin, wait," she said softly.  "I'm sorry.  Please…don't go."

                He hesitated a moment, and then sat back down.  He sat there in silence, arms folded across his chest, just staring at her.

                "I didn't mean to snap at you.  I shouldn't have presumed…" she paused, expecting him to agree with her statement.  Martin, however, simply continued to stare at her.  Samantha sighed, and resumed speaking.  "I know it's no excuse, but I've had to deal with male coworkers…propositioning me.  Over the years, I suppose I've gotten sensitive about it."

                Finally, Martin's expression softened.  "Apology accepted.  Now, where were we before our little misunderstanding?"

                "Well, _I was on my third glass of Scotch, and __you were nursing that beer like it was the last one left during Prohibition," she said with a grin._

                He smiled back.  "I meant where were we in our conversation, but that'll do.  I don't know how you can drink that stuff, by the way."

                "It's an acquired taste.  It's also the fastest way I know to get myself sloppy drunk."

                "Personally, I prefer tequila to accomplish that goal."

                "To each his own, I suppose."

                Again, their conversation hit a lull.  After a few minutes, Samantha started to feel self-conscious.  "Why are you staring at me?  Do I have something on my face?"

                "No, I just…well, I never noticed how many freckles you have."

                In an automatic gesture, Samantha covered her nose with her hand.

                Martin reached across the table and pulled her hand down.  "Don't do that.  I like your freckles.  They're…"

                "If you say 'cute,' you'll be crawling out of here, not walking," she growled.

                "They are, though," he insisted, grinning.

                "I need another drink," she mumbled.

*              *                *

                An hour and a half later, Martin was pretty sure he could call Samantha's freckles cute in five different languages and she wouldn't object.  Although she had slowed down somewhat after her first three drinks, she still, if Martin's count was accurate, consumed six glasses of Scotch.

                The good news was, she wasn't an angry drunk.  She had actually become quite friendly and good-natured as the night wore on, even giggling a few times.

                Now, though, she was barely awake.  Her eyes were glazed, the lids heavy.  Her speech was slurred, and every few minutes, her head would tip forward before jerking back up again.

                "What do you say we call it a night?" he asked quietly.

                Mutely, she nodded, and began struggling to her feet.  Martin stood up and extended his hand to her; she gratefully accepted it.  As they walked out of the bar, he was amazed to note she didn't stumble, although she did lean on him rather heavily for support.  It took them several minutes to reach his car, and her eyes kept drifting closed as he got her settled in the passenger seat.

                Martin went around the vehicle and got into the driver's side.  Turning towards Samantha, he asked, "Where do you live?"

                She, however, was fast asleep.  He knew it would be pointless to rouse her, since she wouldn't stay awake long enough to give him directions.  With a sigh, he put the car in gear and headed for his own apartment.

*              *                *

                Samantha hadn't stirred by the time Martin parked the car on the street outside his building.  He lifted her easily out of the car, shutting the door with his foot and locking the vehicle by remote.  He mounted the steps carefully, fumbling with his keys when he tried to unlock the door.

                Her head was pillowed on his shoulder, and he couldn't help noticing that her hair smelled nice.  Fruity, like peaches or something.

                Finally, he managed to get them into the building, and counted his blessings that he had rented a unit on the first floor.  There was another adventure with keys at his apartment door, but at long last, Martin was home.

                He navigated the apartment in the dark, making his way into his bedroom.  Gently, he lowered Samantha onto the bed, and then flipped on a small bedside lamp.

                Martin crouched down and removed her spike heels, marveling at how she could possibly walk, let alone function, in such things.  He unbuttoned her coat and slipped her arms out of the sleeves, not even attempting to get it out from under her.  As he pulled the comforter over her, Samantha's eyes fluttered open.

                "Where am I?"

                "My apartment," he murmured.  "You were pretty out of it, so I figured it would be easier if you just crashed here."

                "I guess I ended up in your bed after all," she mumbled.

                "I guess so.  Do you need anything?  A glass of water, aspirin?"

                "No, thanks.  I just want to sleep."

                "Okay.  I'll see you tomorrow."

                "G'night, Martin."

                "Goodnight, Samantha."  He switched off the light and began to leave.

                "Martin?"

                "Yeah?"

                "Thank you…and you can call me Sam."

                He knew she couldn't see him smile in the dark, but he did it anyway.  "You're welcome…Sam."


End file.
